


Mischief Managed

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Black Dagger Brotherhood TV series, Clint flips houses, Gaiman adaptations, Harry Dresden films, M/M, Phil's on TV, Rachel Morgan films, Red Romance, Talk Shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8683504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: Written for Msraven's prompt: Actor AU: Phil and Clint as actors working on movies/shows similar to the MCU. They have a mutual crush on each other and are frustrated because they are never in scenes together, only see each other when on the red carpet or everyone else is around. I jumped at the chance to make some of my favorite books into movies/TV shows.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msraven/gifts).



“Phil! Phil! Over here!”

 

“Coulson! Give me a smile!”

 

“We love you, Phil!”

 

Light bulbs flashed; he turned his head to the left, making sure the camera caught his good side.  Tilted his chin up to hide the balding spot in his hair. Tugged his cuffs so his jacket curved perfectly over his shoulders and gave the photographers his practiced half-smile that his fans called sexy mystery.

 

Two steps and he had to pause again; the red carpet was packed with celebrities and their handlers, everyone arriving to see and be seen at the biggest premiere of the season. Who’d have ever thought that a small, upstart film company determined to produce quality urban fantasy movies would be the biggest success story in Hollywood?  Everyone had scoffed at Nick Fury when he left his job at Paramount and opened Shield Studios, armed with nothing but his own force of personality and one big investor. Eight years later, no one was laughing; Fury landed the elusive Erik Lehnsherr to play Harry Dresden and, on a shoestring budget, made his first film.  With the success of _Storm Front_ , fans had spoken loud and clear, the movie opening doors for the others; Natasha Romanoff signed on to play Rachel Morgan and Tony Stark. made a major comeback as the fallen angel, Remy Chandler.  

 

“Phil!”  Nancy O’Dell, one of the hosts of _Entertainment Tonight,_ flagged him down. “So good to see you! Congratulations on the series; I’m totally obsessed with it.” She paused, tucked a stray hair back into place and held up her microphone. “Can I ask you a few questions for the show?”

 

It was part of his job, the constantly being “on” every time he went out. Even grabbing a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts, he was asked to pose for pictures with fans. “Sure.”

 

The light on the camera flared, and the woman holding it gave a nod when she started recording.

 

“I’m here with Phil Coulson who plays Richard Mayhew on the hit show _Neverwhere_ ; first cast as an extra in Dead Witch Walking, Phil made an impression upon Nick Fury, head of Shield Studios, who built his prize Gaiman spin-off around him. Phil, how does it feel to have gone from bit part to starring role?”  Nancy asked.

 

“Humbling, to be honest.” He’d answered this one so many times he didn’t have to think about it. “I’ve been blessed with great writers, producers, studio execs … and co-stars.” He reached out a hand to Melinda May, reeling in the gorgeous woman who made him laugh on a daily basis.  “Like Mel.  She’s the real talent on the set.”

 

“Don’t be so modest,” Melinda told him, smacking him on the shoulder with her beaded clutch. “Everyone knows Phil’s the glue that holds it all together. He’s the stand-in for the audience especially now that Mayhew’s going to travel between worlds and crossover to other properties.”

 

“That’s what I’m the most excited for!” Nancy chimed in. “Which one’s your favorite?”

 

“Well, the Rachel Morgan series gave me my start.” Phil had answered this same question three times already just today. “So I’m a little biased.  Aside from those films, I’d have to say … no, I can’t pick. I love all of them.”

 

“He’s been going on about the Black Dagger Brotherhood.” Melinda jumped in, a wicked gleam in her eye. “So many handsome actors in one show; can’t say I’d mind a guest appearance.”  

 

“So true,” Nancy agreed. “I have to say casting a virtual unknown like Steve Rogers in the role of Wrath, the Vampire King, is a bit risky, don’t you think?”

 

“Steve is a great actor,” Phil said with enthusiasm. The man had a great ass too, but Phil kept that to himself. “The audience is going to fall in love with him or want to be him.”

 

A roar went up from the gathered crowd; Phil glanced back and saw Rogers waving, stopping every few steps to pose for pictures.  Just behind him were Thor Odinson and Loki Laufeyson, the actors playing Vishous and Zsadist; the two were laughing, friends in real life. Just behind them, Bucky Barnes, tapped to play Rhage, and Sam Wilson, the sympath Rehvenge, made Rogers grin at something they said.

 

“And here comes the man himself,” Nancy said to the camera. “Let’s see if we can flag him over.” She dropped the fake smile as the camera light went red. “Thanks, Phil, Melinda. Great interview.”  

 

Phil knew how it was; as one of the older actors working for SHIELD studios, he understood which side his bread was buttered on.  It was more than enough that the fans had organized to keep him around and he’d gotten a leading role. He held no grudges against the younger actors; they deserved their moment of fame.

 

“Oh, look,” Melinda said. “There’s Clint Barton. Who is he playing again?”

 

“Don’t go there,” Phil warned.  Not only was Barton, his favorite actor, Clint was also playing Butch O’Neil, Phil’s go-to fantasy literary character. Phil couldn’t count the number of times he’d jacked off to the image of Butch, and the frequency had increased since he’d learned of the casting.

 

“Least you could do is go up and talk to him.” Her smile was soft. “Introduce yourself. From what I’ve heard, he’s exactly your type.”

 

“Right. I’m going to walk up to him on the red carpet and say, Hey, I’m Phil, how do you feel about kissing a guy?”  Phil shook his head.

 

“I was thinking of being a little more subtle, but, yeah. How are you going to know if you’d ask?”

 

“He was married to Bobbi Morse.” Phil had the list of reasons why he couldn’t have Clint Barton memorized. “He dated Natasha. He’s way above my pay grade as an actor. If he’s bi and in the closet, he probably wants to stay there.”

 

As if he knew they were talking about him, Clint’s head swiveled his head in their direction. Piercing blue green eyes caught Phil’s, and a slow smile spread across Barton’s face. He winked then turned back to the sea of people around him. Rooted to the spot, Phil didn’t move for three heartbeats; Melinda pushed him as people began to crowd around them.

 

“Oh, good God,” she muttered. “Let’s get inside.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re never going to get anywhere if you don’t go say hello,” Natasha told him. “Besides, people are starting to notice the hang dog look; your resting face is even scarier than usual.”

 

The afterparty was in full swing, the mood ebullient thanks to rave reviews and a standing ovation for _Grave Peril_ .. Along with Lensherr, Janet Van Dyne as Murphy and Charles Xavier as Michael Carpenter had really knocked it out of the park.  Clint hoped _Black Dagger_ was as well received; darker, sexier, and more intense, it was a departure from what SHIELD Studios had done before. Still, he knew quality directing, writing, and acting, and this project had all of that in spades.

 

“Remind why we’re friends again?” Clint said

 

“Because we were terrible lovers.” Natasha gave the same answer as always. “And you are a walking tire fire most of the times.”

 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Which is a good reason not to get involved with anyone.”

 

She sighed and finished her martini, elegant as always in her Vera Wang dress and stiletto heels. If Clint could look half as good as Natasha did without even trying, he’d have beat Thor for Sexiest Man of the Year.  Instead, he could barely pull himself together even with a stylist and the studio footing the bill for suits to wear to things like these. If left to his own devices, he’d be in jeans and a t-shirt, puttering around the house, working on his latest renovation projects.

 

“You are hopeless.” Natasha deposited her empty glass on a waiter’s passing tray. “Just promise me this. If you ever get the chance, you’ll take it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, if he asks me out, I’ll say yes.” Not like that was going to happen. With the show in full production mode, Clint was committed to the next three years, at least, of bi-coastal living. Filming in Atlanta meant red-eye flights back and forth if he wanted to sleep in his own bed.

 

“I’ll hold you to it,” she said. “Now I’m off to say hello to Jan and Maria. Try not to brood all night.”

 

He’d damn well brood if he wanted to. Taking another sip of his whiskey, he thought about leaving early, but he’d promised Barney he’d stick it out until midnight. Having his brother as his agent wasn’t always ideal, but Barney understood optics and illusion that was so important in Hollywood. So Clint made his way through the press of bodies, nodding to both Bucky and Sam, and slipping into Stark’s orbit, laughing at a joke and joining in the conversation.

* * *

 

“We’ll do the opening door knock right at 12:30,” the very young personal assistant was saying as he led Phil to his dressing room.. “You have the script, but feel free to ad lib within the parameters established.”  

 

Phil nodded, checking out the star with his name on it taped to the middle of the door. “Not a problem,” he promised. As part of his every man personae, he planned to just be himself. He was a big enough nerd to answer any of the questions Corden might ask.

 

“There’s food in the green room; you need makeup?” The kid had a clipboard with a list as long as his skinny arm to check off. Phil remembered his own early days trying to break into the business with any job he could get.

 

“Already taken care of. Go on, I’m fine,” he assured him.  The PA rushed off, chattering into his mic about camera angles and last minute changes.  

 

He hadn’t eaten since lunch, so he wandered into lounge and found a spread of fruit and veggies along with some bagels.  Snagging a bottle of water, he piled a plate with strawberries, pineapple and a raisin bagel to take back to his room.

 

“Hey.”  Standing in the doorway, Clint Barton hesitated. “Didn’t realize you were on tap for the show tonight.”

 

“I could say the same.” Phil’s surprise bled into his voice. “I thought Rogers was on the schedule.”

 

“He was, but then he went and broke his arm playing basketball this morning. I’m the only one here and available.” Clint gave a rueful smile. “So you’re stuck with me.”

 

“Works for me.” Oh, it worked for him. A lot. Phil cleared his throat and forced himself to ignore the way his cock jumped at Barton’s words. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Phil. Phil Coulson.”  He’d offer his hand, but both were full at the moment.

 

“Clint. Clint Barton. I have to say, I’m a big fan. I loved you in _Much Ado_ and you’re turn as a villain in _U. S. Rangers_ was inspired.” A blush crept up Barton’s cheeks, words tripping over his tongue. “But your death scene in _Dead Witch Walking_ was amazing. That silence right before the sigh? Gets me every time.”

 

“Wait, you saw me in _Much Ado_?  That show only ran three weeks.”  He’d done it as a favor for Victoria Hand; Shakespeare in the Park wasn’t Phil’s usual work.

 

“I happened to be in New York visiting a friend. She knew one of the stage crew.”  Barton’s smile widened. “And I own a VHS version of _Rangers_. When are they going to release that on DVD?”

 

Phil was floored; Barton was a fan? “No clue,” Phil managed to say. “That was a project of love for Bruce; we all worked for virtually nothing then Fox bungled the release date and spent nothing on promotion. It was a crying shame.”

 

“Should have been an Oscar contender,” Clint agreed. “Happens too much; the suits don’t have a clue what they’ve got.”

 

“Like with _Blindspot_ . Gorgeous camera work and the writing was so tight. You acted the hell out the betrayed brother. One of the best performances that year.” Phil grew more confident as he spoke. “And _Widowmaker_. My theater professor used the final fight scene as an example of how action can be intellectual.”

 

The edges of Clint’s face softened, his blush deepening. “Wow, okay. That’s a high compliment; most of the credit goes to Bobbi for her direction. Woman’s got an instinct that’s spot on.”

 

And just like that, Phil remembered why Clint Barton was a dream. “Yeah, she directed you in the third Ronin film, didn’t she? It’s too bad they went back to the original actor; I thought your take on the character had more depth to play out.”

 

“Well, you’d be the only one.” Clint rubbed a hand through his hair, spiking it up even more. “But, thanks. I thought I’d try something different, you know?”

 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the PA called from the hall. “Three minutes.”

 

“”Best get to work, eh?” Clint asked, stepping out of the way so Phil could leave. “See you on stage.”

 

Onstage. Oh, God. Phil was going to have to sit on Corden’s couch next to Barton and make small talk. This was going to be a hell of an interview.

* * *

 

“... Coulson!”  

 

Clint scooted over, opening the seat closest to their host. Striding across the stage, Phil walked with purpose, his gait strong, sure, and so very sexy.  The applause was loud and sustained, quite a few whistles and shouts from fans. Not that Clint could blame them; Coulson was hot. Period. They bumped knees as Phil settled in; Clint leaned back so not to block the shot. He’d had  his interview already; this was Phil’s time.

 

“Do you mind if I fanboy for a minute?” James Corden asked. He held up a sign that said ‘Coulson Lives!’ and waved it towards the audience. More screams ensued.

 

Phil blushed, ducking his chin like a bashful schoolboy. It was a good look on him. Clint crossed his legs and shifted to hide his reaction. This close, Clint could see the tiny flecks of grey in Phil’s hair, the laugh lines around his eyes, and those pushed all his buttons.

 

“Ah,” Phil stuttered out the one sound as Corben flipped the sign over to show a picture of Phil in his late teens or early twenties, sparkling with mischief in his eyes. He was standing beside another guy,  both shirtless, with their chests painted bright orange. “I …”

 

“You were up to something in that pic,” Clint jumped in to help. “That’s the face of someone about to get into trouble.”

 

“You have no idea,” Phil said, sitting back so he could see Clint. “I was the king of crazy plans in college. Let’s just say I had a misspent youth.”

 

“Well, now you have to tell us the story,” Corden encouraged.

 

“Yeah, come on, Phil. Spill.”  Did Clint imagine the slight widening at the corner of Coulson’s eyes at the double entendre of his words? “I bet there’s a bad boy hiding behind that professorial exterior.”

 

Phil’s lips twitched; he looked over the top edge of those black glasses of sex and Clint saw a flash in the blue depths. “I did get arrested that one time …” Phil grinned as he trailed off then he tapped the picture. “But not this time. That’s Jasper and me at the Sugar Bowl; it was the year we won the SEC championship; the game was even played in our stadium. The school didn’t have many student tickets -- only a couple hundred for over 27,000 of us -- and we were pretty pissed about yet another version of the big orange screw. All the money we paid in fees and whole sections of seats were reserved for big donors.”

 

“Big orange screw?” Corden interrupted to ask.

 

“You know, bureaucracy, the letter of the law over the spirit of it, hoops to jump through .... the way universities drive students crazy,” Phil answered. “Getting screwed.”

 

“I don’t know, there’s something to be said for a good screw.” Clint knew he was skirting the line; Barney was probably having a conniption fit as he watched.

 

The audience responded, gasps followed by laughs. Phil’s blush deepened as he replied.

 

“This is more of a tied up and your wallet emptied kind of screw,” Phil clarified.

 

“Sounds like a typical night for me in Vegas,” Corden threw out to more laughter and applause from the crowd.  

 

“Tied up, eh?” Clint raised an eyebrow, enchanted by the way Phil’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Some people like that kind of thing.”

 

“Guess it depends upon who’s doing the tying.” As the words slipped out, Phil’s eyes were fixed on Clint.  Seconds dragged by, the oohs and aaahs from the studio faded to the background. By sheer will, Clint kept his hands to himself, the desire to reach out and touch Phil almost too much.  

 

“Now, that’s going to be the gif trending tomorrow,” Corden said, breaking into the moment.  “And we haven’t even heard the end of the story.”

 

Phil pulled his gaze away, laughed and settled against the back of the couch. “Well, my freshman year, I had a composition teacher whose office was in what used to be a dorm before they expanded the stadium, basically building around the old structure. One day, after I’d been to ask for an extension of a paper due date, I stopped in the bathroom and discovered one of the windows opened to where they’d dumped all the construction debris. Crawl through it and you could get into the stadium -- scratched and dirty, but for free.”

 

“So you and your friend snuck into the game?” James asked. “Pulled one over on the university?”

 

“Oh, no. Jasper and I got charged each member of our fraternity to smuggle them in. Got enough to buy textbooks the next semester,” Phil admitted.

 

“We’ll be right back with bad boy Phil Coulson and the always sexy Clint Barton,” Corden said, laughing as hard as the audience.

 

As the cameras cut out, Phil leaned over to Clint. “Thanks for the save back there,” he murmured.

 

Breath stirred the hair on Clint’s neck, and he resisted the urge to loosen his tie. “Any time,” Clint answered.

 

“That was great!” Corden slapped Phil on the shoulder. “Seriously, what a great story, worth a whole segment. We’ll talk about your show when we come back, okay? Start with the clip.”

 

“Sure.” Phil nodded. “That’ll make the studio happy.”

 

“Oh, they’re going to be happy. Sexy sells, after all.”

* * *

Phil stood in his dressing room, jacket over his arm, double checking that he hadn’t left anything behind. HIs head was still buzzing from the nearness of Clint’s body and that goofy grin that fired every one of Phil’s nerves. The second segment had flown by in a haze, Phil hyper aware of  Clint’s every movement, then Riki Lindhome came on and Phil had no idea what he’d said, making small talk with the comedian.

 

Now, he debated knocking on Barton’s door and going for it, asking him out or just shoving him against the wall and kissing the hell out of that smart mouth. Holding him back was the fear of being wrong, having misinterpreted the signs. To make a fool out of himself or never know the answer? Which would he regret most?

 

He turned on his heel and jerked open the door, determined to march down the hall and do this. Then he froze, face-to-face with Clint whose raised fist hung in the air.

 

“Ah … hi?” Clint broke the silence. “Can I come in?”

 

“Yes.” Phil stepped aside as Clint entered, closing the door behind him. “I was actually on my way to …”

 

“I’m Bi.” Clint announced..

 

“Oh, thank God,” Phil groaned as he hustled Clint against the door. “I wasn’t sure, and I thought …”

 

Clint’s hands slid along Phil’s jaw, pulling his face close, kissing him hard. Pressing in tight, Phil responded in kind, palms skimming along Clint’s arms and squeezing his biceps before continuing down his sides. A wave of need washed over him; he settled his thumbs on Clint’s hipbones and spread his fingers over his back, holding him in place.  He was tempted to sink his tongue into Clint's mouth, to roll his hips and create the friction he craved, but he didn’t.  Pulling away, breaths coming short and quick, Phil looked deep into those blue-grey eyes with pupils blown wide.

 

“We should … I don’t know … get a cup of coffee …” Phil tried to string more than four words together but his heart was beating too fast.

 

“Right.” Clint ran a hand through his hair. “There’s a great diner not too far from here; 24 hour breakfast and pancakes to die for.  I stop there often after a long night; it’s not far from my house.”

 

Last thing Phil wanted to do was sit and talk about the weather, but it would be the adult thing to do.  “Yeah. I love pancakes.” he paused, his brain finally registering what he’d heard. “Your house is near here? I thought it was Santa Monica. The article said …”

 

“You read that?” Clint cocked his head and his grinned widened.

 

“I might be a little more of a fan than I said,” Phil admitted.

 

Clint snorted. “As long as we’re confessing, I saw _Much Ado_ three times just to see you do that little dance.”

 

That decided it; Phil gave himself over to the inevitable. “My place is off of PCH, a good forty-five minute drive.”

 

The 10 was as quiet as it ever gets; Phil tuned the radio to a light jazz station, the mellow saxophone playing in time with passing streetlights, a steady flash, flash, flash as he kept Clint’s tail lights in view.  His body thrummed with anticipation, the earlier heat spreading, adding to the tension. They turned off the highway and wound up into the hills, into a nice neighborhood;  driveways disappeared behind gates, roof lines barely visible.

* * *

 

Clint slowed, waiting as the gate rolled out of the way. He’d never thought he’d be living behind a wall with so much security, but fame, while fleeting, had changed his mind. Waking to find people on his porch, cameras in hand, only had to happen once for him to learn his lesson.

 

He pulled under the carport; behind him, Phil parked his car. A thrill went through Clint; meeting Phil had been so much more than he’d imagined. Maybe there was something to the idea that one soul could recognize another. Not that Clint gave any credence to past lives, but Phil Coulson had always intrigued him, and that feeling showed no signs of abating.

 

“Mid-century modern?” Phil asked as he eyed the low line of the roof, the peak just above the double doors.

 

Keying in the alarm code, Clint pushed them open and ushered Phil inside. “Pretty much.  Restoration’s nice and all, but there’s something to be said for a good recliner.”

 

The main room was airy and big, a vaulted ceiling with exposed beams above and nothing but windows all the way across the back.  Beyond the glass, the lights of L.A. spread out, lines and colors all abruptly stopping at the black that was the Pacific Ocean. Phil, mesmerized by the sight, slipped off his jacket and lay it over the back of one of the green stuffed chairs.

 

“Want a drink?” Clint walked to a buffet, taking two glasses out and a bottle. “You a whiskey or scotch, man?”

 

“That Gentleman Jack will be fine,” Phil told him. “This view is amazing.”

 

“It’s why I bought the place.” Clint handed Phil his drink as he came to stand next to him. “You wouldn’t believe the state it was in when I first saw it.  The prior owner was a hoarder and, after she died, the family just locked the door and walked away.  Had to get a backhoe to get all the junk out of the pool; squatters used it as a garbage dump.” He loved watching the sunset from this room; every night was different from the last.  “Would you like the grand tour?”

 

At Phil’s nod, Clint led the way into the kitchen; the stainless steel appliances had throwback curves, the granite countertops shot through with silver and grey. He loved the open wall with the long diner style table and red vinyl stools on the other side of the island.

 

“Oh.” Phil glanced out the french doors that led to the pool area. “You did the landscaping yourself?”

 

“It’s not that difficult,” Clint demurred. After doing a few houses, he’d realized he could save money that way. “The spa’s my favorite part. I’ll fire it up later if you want … or in the morning.”

 

Phil shot him a heated glance and, just like that, Clint didn’t care about a tour or the spa or reconstruction details. “I have a meeting at 3 tomorrow afternoon, so I’m in no rush,” Phil said, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs. He rolled each sleeve up, one at a time. “I don’t have a suit, but I don’t think that will be a problem, will it?”

 

Mouth gone dry, Clint took a sip of whiskey, eyes lingering on the bit of collarbone exposed. “Not at all.” Carrying the bottle in one hand, his glass in the other, Clint started back the hallway.  “Just wait until you see the view from the master,” he said to cover the taut silence that surrounded them. It’s the best of all.”

 

So used to his bedroom, Clint didn’t pause as he entered, depositing the bottle on the small table by the chaise he liked to sit in while reading scripts. A stack of them was piled by one leg, ready for him to take a look. Phil, however, stopped two steps in, taking in the enormity of the space.  Three walls were nothing but windows, sliding panels that opened to the pool and the surrounding deck. A partial wall separated the bathroom area, stopping at normal ceiling height and leaving the soaring arch of wood beams and planks uncovered. Trees crowded around the mountain side portion of the deck, the rest left open to the pattern of lights from the city.

 

“Why do you ever leave?” Phil asked, taking it all in.

 

“Got to make money to pay for it,” Clint answered, ducking into the walk-in closet and grabbing some hangers. He slipped his blazer off and hung it on a hook by the door. “But, yeah, I patterned this after a hotel I stayed in once in Bali. It’s my own personal resort.”

 

With facile fingers, he unbuckled his belt and slid the leather out of the loops, curling it in loops and sitting on the dresser. Next were his shoes, carefully untied and left under the bench at the end of the bed. “But my favorite is the cabin in Butte. Hand hewn logs and stone fireplaces. A great weekend getaway.”

 

Once his feet were bare, he padded over to Phil and undid his tie, taking out the knot and smoothing it out.  Then he worked on Phil’s belt, dragging his fingers along the waistband as he slipped it free.

 

“I don’t have anything with me.” Phil’s hands caught the hem of Clint’s turtleneck and tugged; Clint raised his arms and let Phil pull it over his head. “Do you …?”

 

“Yeah. In the beside table. Been awhile, but I think I remember how it works.” He grinned when he saw the white cotton revealed as he unbuttoned Phil’s shirt. “I knew you were a t-shirt kind of guy.  So sexy, all Clark Gable and Gene Kelly.”

 

“I’d have pegged you for a Rat Pack fan,” Phil replied, popping the button on Clint’s pants and easing the zipper down. “A little Deano and Frank.”

 

“I do own a fedora or two.” Clint tossed Phil’s t-shirt onto the growing pile. He called, “Play Rat Pack playlist.”

 

The first notes of “Fly Me to the Moon” started and Clint tugged Phil closer, sliding an arm around his waist and clasping his hand. With a sway and step, Clint began to dance, turning them around the room as Phil laughed, his eyes sparkling as he joined in.

 

“In other words, hold my hand,” Clint sang. “In other words, baby, kiss me.”

 

As their lips met, they slowed, bodies syncing into a more primal rhythm, a roll of the hip and turn of the waist. The music continued and so did they, silk boxers and cotton briefs the only fabrics left between them.  They danced their way to the bed, and Clint laid Phil on the soft duvet, tracing his jaw with his lips, down the neck and onto Phil’s chest. Moonlight spilled in, the room awash in blue and streaked with shadows. Songs merged one into the other, dreaming a little dream, flying away, irresponsibly mad for you, as they tasted and touched, learned each other’s bodies, and spoke without words in an age-old way.

 

Clint reveled in the weight of Phil’s cock in his mouth, the tiny sounds Phil made, the press of fingertips in his hair. How Phil took the initiative, flipping them over so he could nip at Clint’s nipples and lick his way along Clint’s inner thigh.  Giving himself up to the pleasure, Clint enjoyed every second of Phil opening him up, the stretch as he filled him, the slow thrusts that built in speed until the headboard thump against the wall and Clint arched his back up into a bow, legs wrapped tightly around Phil’s hips.

 

In the wee hours of the morning, they raided the refrigerator, bypassing healthy foods like kale and seaweed for leftover Chinese and bottles of beer. They ate at the counter, fully nude, then Clint started the spa and they stepped down into the warm swirling water, drinks in hand.  Utterly sated and relaxed, they talked about nothing and everything, Phil’s college days, Clint’s years of living in the houses he worked on, dream projects and their worst role. The heat and the alcohol made the brush of bodies dreamlike, steam rising from skin as cool droplets ran down the bottles, chilling Clint’s fingers. Coming together was as inevitable as the tide; exploring sensitive spots, the first blush of passion giving way to something slower, steadier … deeper.  Time passed like honey, languid and sweet. Only when the spa timer kicked off for the third time did they emerge; Clint ushered Phil into his shower, dropped to his knees, and sucked Phil as the water rained down on them both.  

 

Wrapped around each other, Clint eased into sleep as sky began to lighten, the first blush of morning.

 

* * *

 

“... and cut!”  Maria Hill called. “That was great, guys. Steve, I loved the beat before you spoke. Heightens Wrath’s internal struggle. And Phil, you captured Mayhew’s confusion perfectly. Now, let’s set up for scene 42. I want to catch the sunset; the light in the alley should be perfect for the special effects crew.”

 

As director of the hottest new show on cable, Maria encouraged innovation and actor input.  Phil, making his first crossover appearance, had felt the chemistry between the actors,  bringing to life the brotherhood part of the title.

 

“Hey.” Clint bumped Phil’s shoulder with his own. “You were hot as hell out there.”

 

“I’ll be surprised if anyone notices me with Rogers in the shot.” Phil might be taken, but he wasn’t dead. Muscles like that deserved to be the center of attention. “Who wants the balding middle aged guy when they can oogle Steve’s bare chest?”

 

“Me.” Clint smirked. “I’ll take you any day.”

 

“Alright, boys,” Maria raised her eyebrow and gave them a half-smile. “Save that chemistry for the screen. You’re up next; time to let our two mundane humans shine.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint replied with a wink. “But you don’t have to worry. Phil and I are going to put the sub in subtext.”

 

“Seriously?” Phil said. “Everyone doesn’t need to know what happens in our bedroom.”

 

“You too deserve each other,” Hill shot back.

 

“Yes.” Phil gazed fondly at Clint. “Yes we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> All the shows and movies are based upon my favorite urban Fantasy Novels. I'd kill to see an HBO adaptation of the Black Dagger Brotherhood with Jeremy Renner as Butch. Like, who do I have to pay to make this happen??? Anyway, here's the authors if you're interested.
> 
> Kim Harrison writes the Dead Witch Walking series featuring Rachel Morgan  
> Jim Butcher is the mad genuis behind The Dresden Files series  
> Thomas Sniegoski created Remy Chander, the fallen angel detective  
> Neil Gaiman wrote Everwhere.  
> J. R. Ward is still writing on the Black Dagger Brotherhood.


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